


erosion

by remaya



Series: voldusa [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blind Harry Potter, M/M, Minor Violence, Romance, Voldemort is Medusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: Voldemort's gaze turns any mortal to stone... except Harry Potter.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: voldusa [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718263
Comments: 304
Kudos: 1452
Collections: Corona Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [PaperWorlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperWorlds/pseuds/PaperWorlds) in the [CoronaChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CoronaChallenge) collection. 



> this AU mixes Ancient Greek mythology and culture with vaguely English clothes and climate. i'm ignoring all of Medusa and mythology's cultural implications, etc.-- i'm only borrowing the story premise and having fun with it. i estimate... at least two, no more than five chapters <3
> 
> also, yes, of _course_ Cedric is going to appear as Perseus, who do you take me for

1

This bout of Harry Hunting is different.

The malicious promise settles in Harry’s gut and weighs Harry down as he runs faster, further than he’s ever run before. He’s left the familiar stone paths of the village; now, his thin boots sink into soft earth, and the forest is cold, shaded. He doesn’t know this territory, even though he’s been chased through it often, for the trees all feel similar, and the undergrowth constantly changes. 

Harry is afraid. He’s scratched and bruised from smacking into trees and low hanging branches. He does not know where he is going, only that behind him, he must be leaving a clear trail for Dudley and Piers and the rest to follow. But he cannot stop, despite the weakness he feels deep in his bones, for if he stops, then Dudley will hold him down and Piers will punch him and then finish untying his belt, something that he’s never done before. Harry has no doubt that it would be worse than all else they’ve done to him.

He runs, and runs, and runs, until his body aches and stings and his gasps are wordless pleas for mercy, and he has no doubt that Dudley will catch him. He wonders if this inevitability is what Iphigeneia felt before she was sacrificed. No. She walked to her death with her head held high-- she made that choice-- and that makes all the difference in the world. 

Harry’s death would liberate nobody but himself. Why is he fighting it? 

He slows.

He strains his ears. He can’t hear anything aside from his own strained breath. His relief at the absence of Dudley’s heavy steps is soon replaced by apprehension at the absence of all other sound. It is unnaturally quiet for a forest-- there is no birdsong, not even a warning call for Harry’s presence; no rustling of leaves; only… the sound of water, rhythmically washing against land.

The ocean. But the ocean is far from the village-- further than Harry had thought it possible to reach on foot. Harry has only heard it once, faintly, on the trail to the city, during the one and only time the Dursleys had allowed Harry to attend the annual festival of Dionysus with them.

Some god must have blessed his frantic escape. Harry falls to his knees, shaking, and presses his burning forehead to the cool dirt.

“Thank you, thank you, o generous one,” he whispers over and over again, and he imagines that he can feel the ground quakes along with him, and a cool caress on his sweaty nape.

With new strength, Harry pushes himself up. He has escaped the Dursleys, but without water, food, and shelter, he will not survive long. The ocean must have water. It sounds close. Harry stumbles towards it. When he breaks out of the cover of the trees, the sun warms him, and his dark hair is burning hot by the time he treads precariously over rocky shore instead of fertile soil. 

He bends and picks up a small rock, testing the weight of it in his hand before tossing it gently forward. It hits another rock with a clatter, so Harry takes a few more steps and tries again. In this manner, he finds the water line-- the latest rock finally lands with a _plop_ into water. Harry scrambles forward, thirsty beyond measure, and squats and bends to cup water in his hands. It feels clear, no dirt or debris in it, so Harry brings it to his lips-- and promptly gags.

It tastes like tears!

Harry splutters. That’s how the stranger finds him: wiping his tongue on his sleeve and only succeeding in adding the taste of dirt to the unbearable salt.

“Who are _you_?” a male voice demands out of nowhere, far closer than it should have been without Harry noticing his approach. Harry shrieks, flails, and falls backward.

Strong, large hands catch him and haul him upright. Harry quickly steps out of the stranger’s loose hold, unnerved by the close contact, but doesn’t turn around. He shivers as an icy breeze sweeps in from the ocean, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the stranger’s touch.

“I’m-- I’m nobody important,” Harry rasps hastily, his throat dry. “Just passing through.” He’s utterly terrified, all of a sudden-- what if the stranger recognizes him and sends him back to the Dursleys? A terrible beating awaits him there. All the more reason not to turn around and show his face.

Thankfully, the blessing has not left Harry, for the stranger only says, “Hmm. If _you_ are the latest hero looking to kill me, then the gods must be growing truly desperate.”

“What a strange conclusion to jump to!” Harry exclaims. “I have no desire to kill you-- I have no idea who you are. Do you often meet people trying to kill you?” He then winces at the insensitive question. If he has overstepped his bounds, surely the stranger will let Harry know, with physical punishment or with reprimand.

“Yes, obviously,” says the stranger. Would it be obvious to a person who could see? Can one see whether another is accustomed to attempted murder? Harry wouldn’t know. “If you are not here to kill me, then why are you here? This coast is cursed.”

“Is that why the water is salty?” Harry wonders.

“The ocean needs no curse to be salty.”

“Oh.” This must be the strangest conversation Harry has ever had. Then again, he hasn’t had many civil conversations, so perhaps this is normal.

“Would you answer my question?” the stranger says impatiently. “Why are you here?”

For some reason, this time, Harry’s mouth opens before he gives it permission to, as if compelled. “I want to live.”

“... Explain,” the stranger commands, sounding a little bewildered.

“Dudley and his friends were chasing me, so I ran until I arrived here. I don’t know where ‘here’ is,” Harry gasps, shocked at how easily he’d revealed himself, and whirls around, drops to his knees to beg, “please don’t send me back to the Dursleys, good stranger! I don’t think I could survive there a day longer, and they must be readying my punishment now. I wasn’t supposed to run away-- only just enough, so Dudley could have a chase and catch me. But I didn’t want to be caught. Please, do not send me back!”

An excruciating silence follows. Harry’s body trembles without his permission and he curls into himself, hoping against reason that this stranger is kind.

“Look up,” the stranger says at length, “that I might free you from your Dursleys.”

Warm fingertips touch Harry’s chin and tilt his face upwards. Harry blinks, tears gathering in his eyes.

The ensuing silence is even more excruciating than the last.

“Impossible,” the stranger breathes. A swift rustling of cloth, and Harry’s shoulders are gripped in large hands. “Impossible!”

“So you are sending me back?” Harry says, small and timid. He feels as though he is falling. All hope of freedom slips from him, and the spiteful voice in the back of his head tells him it was inevitable. His tears run lines down his cheeks.

“No,” the stranger says roughly. 

Harry’s hopes lift so quickly that he’s dizzy with them. “No?”

“I open my home to you,” says the stranger, and Harry gives a quiet sob. Then, overwhelmed, he passes out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you notice the language gaining a weird lilt… \o/ that's just my nerdiness

2

Harry wakes to the feeling of breath on his face.

Shocked and confused, he gasps and struggles backward, away. The soft fur under and over his limbs makes the maneuver difficult, and by the time he falls off of an edge and meets cold, stone ground, he’s hopelessly entangled.

“Stop moving!” somebody is shouting, notes of panic and frustration in their familiar voice. The strong hands of the stranger are suddenly gripping Harry’s shoulders. Before Harry can escape again, they move under his knees and his shoulders, and Harry is lifted back onto the platform of furs.

Harry stills. “Good stranger?”

“I am not  _ good _ ,” says the stranger, his hands rearranging the furs about Harry. “But I am no stranger to you.”

“I must be dreaming,” says Harry, faintly. “By the gods, I’ve finally gone mad. Vernon always said it would happen sooner or later, but I never believed him! My body may now be laying prone in the forest, lacking honor. O Zeus, I’m an idiot, an absolute idiot, heavens forgive me.”

“You are nothing of the kind, and the heavens owe you no forgiveness,” the stranger says, cupping Harry’s cheek in one large palm. “I am no dream. Those who dream of me would dream of monsters. By what means may I prove myself to you?”

“These are exactly the sort of odd happenings a madman would dream,” Harry laments. “And curse the dream which claims it is real! It seeks to disconcert. I am trapped in riddles. Should I ask the deranged mind what is not deranged? It can no longer tell the difference.”

“Ask,” says the stranger. His touch disappears.

“My own dreams humor me,” Harry laughs, embarrassed, covering his heated face with his hands and taking comfort in the ordinary touch. “That is how pathetic I am now. Very well. I am experiencing bizarre sensations, and I speak to an imaginary figure. If I had any  _ kleos _ \-- any honor or reputation, before, I have lost it.”

“You have lost none.” The stranger sighs, exasperated. The sigh has the baffling undertone of a snake’s hiss. “Only time will convince you now.”

“Ah, and now my imaginary figure is unhappy with me. I displease everyone.” Harry lowers his hands and smiles in the direction of the voice. “I am resigned, but I have not lost my manners, even towards imaginary figures. If we are to be acquainted for a long time, as you imply, what may I name you?”

The stranger is silent for a moment. “Voldemort.”

“Voldemort,” Harry echoes. “How bizarre.”

Voldemort chuckles. “ _ You  _ are the bizarre one, judging me imaginary. Now it is your turn to provide a name for me.”

“I am Harry, son of… it doesn’t matter here, does it? It gives me no  _ kleos, _ anyhow; I wish not to think of it.”

“Pray do not strain yourself, then,” says Voldemort, amusement still lacing his tone. “Now sit up if you are able. You need water.”

“I… I do,” says Harry, astonished that he had not noticed such a keen thirst sooner. Perhaps some of his delirium may be attributed to it, and his hunger. Voldemort’s hands touch him again, firmly, to help him sit up. One of them nearly spans the width of Harry’s waist; its pleasant warmth and solidity warm his back.

The other must hold the bowl that is held up to Harry’s lips. Harry brings his own hands up to steady it and drinks greedily. The water is cool, somewhat sweet. Harry feels a little queasy from swallowing so much so quickly, but he doesn’t refuse the bowl after Voldemort refills it in a nearby basin.

“Ah, I cannot,” Harry mumbles when the bowl touches his lips for the third time. “This nausea is very real.”

“ _ Nausea? _ ” Voldemort repeats, alarmed. The bowl clatters onto stone to the left of Harry; Voldemort’s other hand returns to flutter over Harry’s upper body and settles over Harry’s pulse. 

Harry lifts his hands to cover Voldemort’s and tries not to be insecure about how much more apparent their size difference is in this manner. “I am fine. I merely need rest, and food.” He holds on a little tighter to anchor himself against another wave of dizziness. “I think… I think this might be real. If so, you have been very patient with me.”

“It is real,” Voldemort replies. He must be quite close to Harry-- Harry imagines that he can feel Voldemort’s chest rumbling with his low voice. Harry shifts and removes Voldemort’s hand from his neck, unnerved by the lack of distance, but Voldemort doesn’t move away. The nearest physical contact he can remember, other than this, is whenever somebody had been beating him.

They remain in the position for several long moments, during which Harry lowers his eyes and breathes as quietly as he is able. He wonders what Voldemort is thinking. He wonders what Voldemort is  _ seeing _ . 

Voldemort pulls away. “I will return with something for you to eat. Rest.”

Harry hears the faintest rasp of bare feet on stone, and then Voldemort’s presence is gone. He clutches the furs on the bed to his chest.

Tentatively, Harry feels for the edge of the platform he’s sitting on. Straining his ears for a hint of Voldemort’s return, he slowly draws a thick fur around himself, slips off of the platform, and explores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whAt migHt hArrY fiNd 
> 
> on another note: i'm really enjoying these shorter chapters. they're spawning quickly :elmo:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twice in one day? no... i'm an imposter...

3

Voldemort clearly lives alone in this cave. Harry only finds one bed-- the one he’d been laying on-- and there are only two chambers, judging by the echoes. The first one opens into the second one, and the second one must open into the wilderness, for Harry hears the ocean beyond it.

Harry begins to think that exploring without a chaperone or even permission might be a bad idea when he nearly impales himself on a blade in the second chamber.

Fortunately, he’d felt the air in front of him with his hand before moving forward, so all he’s earned is a shallow cut on his palm. The injury should warn him not to go any further, but of course, Harry does, and that’s how he ends up feeling his way down the shaft of a spear to find a _hand_ attached to it _._

He might shriek, a little. Then he realizes that the hand is cold and unyielding-- it’s stone, carved into an extremely lifelike shape. It’s so lifelike that Harry can nearly feel the desperation emanating from its tight-knuckled grip, and tendons stand out in its wrist. The forearm attached to the hand bulges with muscle; the bicep might be as large as Harry’s head. As Harry maps the rest of the body, he finds it similarly large, with a warrior’s build and armor. It stands as if about to throw the spear.

Harry’s head comes up to the middle of the statue’s chest, so he has to tiptoe a little to reach its face, bracing himself with a hand on its thick shoulder. The detail of the statue astounds him; each individual strand of hair is finely detailed. Harry then feels up the corded neck up to the face.

He frowns, perplexed, as he feels a cheek. It bulges strangely. As his fingers brush over the gaping mouth, which contains teeth and a tongue, he realizes that the statue’s face must be contorted into a terrified scream.

Faintly alarmed, he steps back. Voldemort will probably return soon; he should go. He doesn’t feel like exploring anything else at the moment, for even as he quickly makes his way back to the bed, guided by a hand on the cave wall, his head is swimming with lingering nausea and questions.

Did Voldemort carve it? Does Voldemort live alone? If he had carved it, why such a frightful image?

His breathing sounds very loud in his own ears.

Harry pats himself down before slipping back into the bed. Somehow, Voldemort must have cleaned the forest grime off of him, wrapped his cuts, and changed him into new, clean, soft clothes while he’d been unconscious. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, but he refuses to be a bad guest by leaving dirt on the furs. He conveniently doesn’t consider harmless exploring as bad guest behavior; he has to know what kind of person he is relying on, doesn’t he, and anyhow he hadn’t expected to find the statue.

His instinct tells him that it can’t be one of a kind, if only because that level of skill must have been acquired through dedicated practice and a god’s blessing.

When he finally lays down, the exhaustion of the day catches up to him. He honestly… his muscles ache something fierce, and bedding has never felt so _soft_ before…

* * *

Harry next wakes to the touch of a hand brushing hair from his forehead. Usually, when he’s woken with a touch, it is with malicious intent, so he is understandably shaken.

“It is me,” Voldemort says hastily, more harsh than soothing. Harry only relaxes after he catches Voldemort’s hand in both of his own and feels the familiar shape. The palm is sturdy, large, and calloused, and the fingers are long and elegant. It is unlikely for the hand to belong to anyone else than his unexpected savior. 

“You’re back,” Harry says dumbly, then flushes as he catches himself admiring Voldemort’s hand.

Voldemort’s voice is strangled when he replies, “I am.”

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, concerned.

“I am fine.” Voldemort clears his throat, then says, intent, “I smell blood. You…”

“Oh,” says Harry guiltily, caving instantly under the attention, “I must apologize. I explored a bit while you were gone; I cut my hand on the spear in the other chamber. That statue is so wonderfully crafted, did you create it? Your skill may as well have turned a living person into stone!” Harry has turned his head to face where he thinks Voldemort might be, and his praise is earnest.

“... I did,” Voldemort says at last. “Give me your hand.”

Is he going to punish Harry? Harry trembles a little, cowed, but he gives his hand. It is Voldemort’s home.

Voldemort takes his hand gently, and a moment later, something cold and oily is smeared across his cut. Harry flinches from the sensation before he realizes that it doesn’t hurt anymore-- the area has numbed.

“This is a salve,” Voldemort explains, perhaps noticing Harry’s confusion. “It heals and prevents infection.”

Harry blinks, a lump rising in his throat. “Thank you! You are kind to me.”

Voldemort does not respond to the praise, his silence uncertain. Eventually, he moves again, and a strip of fabric is wrapped around Harry’s hand, over the wraps for the other scratches. “I am wrapping a bandage.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeats, his voice thick.

Voldemort emits a short, quiet hiss. “Now, you must eat. Are you able to hold a spoon?”

Harry flexes his hands. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Good.” Voldemort carefully places a bowl of stew into Harry’s lap and wraps Harry’s fingers around the handle of a spoon. “I will remove the weapons from the statues. Eat.” Harry doesn’t think he imagines the “Mortals are so fragile." Voldemort mutters as he leaves.

How strange.

If Voldemort is not mortal, then what is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter intros someone i'm super excited for you all to meet :elmo:


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so that person i promised for y'all to meet? they're in the _next_ chapter now, because V's hair is apparently dramatic and needs screen time, so i broke the chapter up <3

4

Voldemort practices how to best care for a mortal over the next few days. He learns Harry’s favored foods, adjusts the number of furs tucked around Harry at night, and helps familiarize Harry with the distance between things in the cave. A stone basin for washing-water and another for drinking appear near the bed; Voldemort carves divots into their edges to remind Harry of the differences. For the matter of clothing, Voldemort could have appropriated some in Harry’s size from the nearest village, but he is far too fond of giving Harry his own oversized shirts to stop.

Throughout, Voldemort is careful not to reveal his monstrous nature to Harry; Harry, against all odds, has become something precious to him. He is the only mortal that seems to be both immune to Voldemort’s power and ignorant of Voldemort’s nature despite the rumors that definitely circulate through the villages. Voldemort takes advantage of this with pleasure. He has not had a civil conversation with another soul in decades, let alone the reassuring touches Harry constantly reaches for.

Voldemort easily keeps his snake-hair away from Harry; Harry is blind, and rarely reaches up as high as Voldemort’s head. His snakes, however, chafe under the new rule of being quiet around Harry. They often find it necessary to give _advice_.

“ _Harry’s looking peaky,_ ” Nagini, his favorite, hisses. She keeps the sound quiet and low, but Voldemort is fairly sure that Harry can hear it and has only refrained from asking after it out of courtesy. “ _Feed him. Make sure the mice are juicy. I am afraid for him; his wrists are about to snap._ ”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Voldemort hisses back under his breath. Attempting to explain things to his snakes is utterly futile. Harry _is_ far too thin, though. “Harry.” 

Harry tilts his head to show he is listening, his hands stilling on the furs he’d been rearranging. 

“Are you hungry?”

“I ate already this morning,” says Harry, confused.

Oh. 

Sasha, Voldemort’s least favorite and also the most dramatic, writhes around on his head, disturbing the other snakes. “ _Harry must eat! Else he will shrivel and_ perish _!_ ”

Voldemort doesn’t even respond, letting the rest of the snakes calm her. He’s not so irritated when he’s watching Harry absently hum to himself while fussing with the furs. And, because Harry cannot see, he doesn’t bother to suppress his faint smile.

Harry, finally satisfied, pats the furs and sits. “Voldemort? Are you still here?”

“Yes.” Voldemort moves across the cave to sit next to Harry and takes Harry’s hand. Harry’s other hand flits over to make sure that it is Voldemort sitting next to him before he speaks.

“I’ve been thinking.” 

Apprehension lodges in Voldemort’s gut. Is Harry growing tired of this-- does he wish to leave? Voldemort is unable to harm him, but he would keep him for as long as possible.

“I must apologize to you!” Harry blurts suddenly. Relief rushes through Voldemort, followed by another wave of tension. Worry. “I-- when we first met, you only asked me my purpose for intruding upon your home, and I gave you such an embarrassing outburst!”

So it is merely this. Voldemort says, fond, “No need to apologize.”

“But I have been thinking about it for so long,” Harry says, mournful. “I am so sorry. I know not why I was so forthcoming to a stranger-- it was rude of me, to heap upon you my own worries when you asked for none!”

“Ah,” says Voldemort, feeling vaguely guilty. “The fault is mine. There truly is nothing for you to apologize for.”

“There is! I--”

“I must take the blame for this,” Voldemort interrupts. “I was… overly forceful, upon finding you in my domain. It was unwarranted. I compelled you to answer, and you did, through no fault of your own.”

Harry’s grip on his hand tightens in agitation. “I don’t understand.”

Voldemort mulls over how to best explain before answering carefully, “I can compel mortals to answer me honestly. I used that power on you when we met.”

“... Oh.”

Was forthcoming not the correct way to explain? Or perhaps Harry is unhappy with him. “I apologize, for the misunderstanding,” Voldemort says, haltingly, feeling as if _Harry_ is the one with the power of compulsion. “I do not wish for your discomfort. And I have not used it on you since.”

“ _Oh._ ” Harry flings his arms around Voldemort’s middle. “I’m glad that you are not mad at me,” he says, voice muffled in Voldemort’s robe. Voldemort tentatively brings his arms up to hold the unexpected bundle of warmth clinging to him. Harry is remarkably fragile and small and alive. Voldemort looks down at his messy hair and does not know what he is feeling.

“ _Mate, mate now,_ ” Sasha hisses encouragingly. Nagini bites her. “ _Ow. Ow! You cruel, cruel snake. Basil, defend me! Sssss!_ ”

Voldemort sighs. His hair is ruining the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :elmo: hint: it's not perseus!cedric in the next chapter. if someone guesses correctly i will be Astounded :O


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DDD

5

“How does mighty Zeus fare today?”

“The skies are clear,” Voldemort answers. “The sun shines.”

“Then he blesses us,” Harry exclaims, cheerful. “Will we go outside?”

“As you wish.”

Excited, Harry dresses and washes his face and hands. Voldemort fetches a basket; he is running low on some herbs for the salves he applies every day to Harry’s healing cuts and old scars, and Harry likes to eat fresh mushrooms.

Harry delights in the rocky coast. While he is basking in the sunlight and the cool breeze sweeping inland, searching for oddly-shaped rocks and shells to collect, Voldemort wanders into the forest in search of his ingredients. It had taken dozens of these excursions for Harry to convince him that no, Harry would not trip and mortally wound himself in Voldemort’s absence.

Harry smiles at the thought. Voldemort is such a worrywart.

He’s humming absently, as has become his habit, inspecting the ridges of a spiral shell that he can’t wait to show Voldemort, when Voldemort’s worry is finally justified. His only warning is a swell in the sound of the sea; as Harry turns towards the water, confused at its sudden agitation, a hand clamps down on his mouth and he is hauled backwards into an unfamiliar chest.

Heart pounding, Harry shrieks into the hand and flails. The hand over his mouth presses tighter, blocking his air as well as his sound, and Harry bites, tasting road-grime. His attacker curses in the name of Dionysus.

“Cease your-- infernal-- _wiggling--_ ” the attacker pants as he wrestles Harry to the ground. Harry feels several of his cuts re-opening and his head thuds harshly onto a sharp rock. “I’m trying to _save_ you!”

“Poseidon be my witness-- I need saving _from_ you!” Harry protests, dazed and pinned down by the attacker’s large bulk. “Throw yourself to the crows, you shit eater! Shame on you, bitch-face, may the heavens curse you, burden to the earth--”

“I have done nothing to warrant such-- such filthy insults!” cries the attacker, sounding mortally offended.

“O gods, may you be watching, he dares!” Harry shouts, renewing his efforts in vain. “This man injures me unprovoked, in Voldemort’s domain!” In the midst of their argument, neither Harry nor the attacker had noticed the large splash in the ocean and the whistling of the wind. They do, however, notice Voldemort’s arrival.

“Do not name him,” the attacker is admonishing Harry, “you will summon him!”

“You _dare_ ,” Voldemort’s voice surrounds them. It is accompanied by aggressive, loud hissing. Relief floods Harry as the weight on him lifts; he allows himself a few seconds to lay limp and catch his breath, then scrambles away as discreetly as he is able while the attacker is occupied with Voldemort.

“Voldemort, I challenge you! Show yourself! For it is I, Cormac, son of Cormac the First, of the McLaggens of fair Bernicia, slayer of the Giant Squid of the Great Lake at the castle of Hogwarts!” Cormac launches into a detailed rendition of this slaying.

Meanwhile, a gentle, large, somewhat wet and squishy limb wraps itself around Harry’s waist. Before he can so much as squeak in surprise, more limbs support his lower body and torso, and he is slowly lifted backwards into the air, away from Cormac.

This is the second time he has been manhandled today without his consent. Voldemort, for one, is much more respectful of his autonomy. Harry opens his mouth to scream-- but then, a sense of peace settles over him, as if a god has touched his brow. Harry closes his mouth and swallows nervously.

“Do not be afraid,” the waves whisper to him. 

“No wonder your horse was so glad to be rid of you,” Voldemort is interrupting Cormac, his voice still emanating from all directions. “You are a dirty fool, and a liar, for you have not killed the Giant Squid.”

“I most certainly _did!_ There is no honor in accusing an honest man of lying,” Cormac says haughtily. “I severed each tentacle myself. The Squid was too weak, and not strong enough to beat me-- these are two reasons why it was killed completely!”

The limbs supporting Harry shiver. Harry might realize something. He pats the tentacle around his waist in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

“I will defeat you, Voldemort, and then I will rescue your hostage!” Cormac continues. “Here he is-- wait--” There is a noisy intake of breath. “Oh, oh my-- by Dionysus.”

“I tire of you,” Voldemort sighs. “Normally I would toy with you awhile-- no matter.” The constant hissing sound is now emanating from Cormac’s general vicinity, and Voldemort’s voice lowers. “Now, now, _Cormac,_ look at me. Do not resist. You cannot be an honest man and claim no curiosity. How long have you wondered at the monstrous appearance of _Medusa?_ ”

“My-- my uncle will hear about this,” Cormac stammers. “He is a prominent member of Bernicia’s assembly-- and Dionysus, too, my patron god, you will draw his ire with my injury--”

“None to whom I name myself live beyond this cove,” Voldemort purrs. “ _Look at me._ ”

Cormac screams.

Harry winces as he hears a thunderous _crack_ echo. The tentacle beneath Harry’s hand shifts, reminding him that he’s gripping it too tightly; Harry lets go, horrified at himself and at the dawning comprehension that Voldemort-- his kind, caring Voldemort-- is not only beyond mortal, but also a monster.

The tentacles lower Harry back onto solid ground. They squeeze lightly, once, before withdrawing, slipping through Harry’s fingers. The Giant Squid-- for that is what had been holding Harry-- slips back under the waves with a quiet _plop_.

Voldemort hurries over, his hissing agitated. “Harry, are you alright?” His hands touch Harry’s shoulders, but he quickly removes them at Harry’s instinctive flinch. He says, panicked, “Harry, please, I need you to talk to me. Tell me you’re alright.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, though the action does nothing.

“You have his blood in your mouth,” Voldemort adds, near-hysterical and trying to be steady for the both of them.

Harry cycles through the multitude of things he could say, or accuse, or ask. He finally settles on, “I feel _violated._ ”

“I should have left him alive longer,” Voldemort rasps. He scoops Harry up in a bridal carry and walks as swiftly as possible without jostling Harry. “Curse his family. Oh, Poseidon should have warned me sooner-- that’s _blood on the back of your head--_ ” Voldemort breaks into a run, hissing.

“I am nowhere near death, but I am a little dizzy. Do not run,” Harry says, hoping to soothe. He cannot imagine why he’d ever thought Voldemort a terrifying monster. Voldemort sounds utterly terrified himself.

“Your favor with the gods should have _prevented this,_ ” Voldemort says, just as agitated, though he slows. “Poseidon, I am extremely unhappy with you. You had better do your part to make up Cormac’s death to Dionysus.”

Harry never would have thought that wind could emote, and yet the ocean’s breeze feels distinctly petulant and worried as it brushes over him. Perhaps the worry is warranted; Harry’s entire body is sore and stinging. He puts a hand on Voldemort’s chest to steady himself.

Voldemort’s heart is beating rapidly.

“Voldemort,” Harry whispers as he’s carefully lowered onto the bed and Voldemort starts fussing over him.

“Hmm,” Voldemort responds.

“Do not be unhappy with me.”

“I am not unhappy with you. I am dissatisfied with myself. I should have prevented this.”

“It is no fault of yours,” Harry says, “it is Cormac’s.”

“I should have prevented it,” Voldemort reiterates. “Turn over, that I may see your head.”

Harry turns onto his stomach. He figures that now is as good a time as any; he is deeply curious. “Forgive me my impertinence, if it is so. I must ask.”

Voldemort’s hands still, then resume cleaning Harry’s cut. “Ask,” Voldemort says, apprehensive.

There is no tactful way to phrase it. “What are you?”

This time, Voldemort does not resume his fussing right away. “There is a matter of great importance,” he says heavily, “that I have neglected to tell you, in favor of my own enjoyment of your company. I must confess, I had not anticipated its reveal to be so crude--”

“I didn’t ask for a dramatic monologue, silly,” Harry says. “Only what you are. Tell me directly. You will not anger me; I would merely know who I live with, who provides for me.”

“... I am Medusa.” Tension radiates off of Voldemort as he hovers anxiously over Harry. It occurs to Harry that he holds power over Voldemort now, in his acceptance or rejection.

Harry rushes to reassure him. “And I’m sure that is perfectly fine by me-- only I’m not entirely sure what exactly Medusa is, or what a Medusa can do.”

“You have not heard the rumors?”

“I have not. As you well know, I did not get out much, let alone gossip.”

“Right.” Voldemort’s wince is palpable. “I am sorry.”

“Stop avoiding the question,” Harry says, exasperated, pushing himself up on his hands. 

“No, no, do not!” Voldemort halts Harry with a hand between his shoulder blades. “I will answer. Lay back down.”

Harry lays back down, expectantly.

“I shall explain everything presently. I was not always this way. I used to be beautiful,” Voldemort begins, then stops to gather his thoughts. He has never explained this to anybody before.

“Go on,” Harry encourages him.

“I was beautiful, so beautiful that my arrogance blinded me to my mortality. I was audacious. I challenged Athena, and I invoked Poseidon’s name inside her sacred temple.”

Harry gasps.

“Yes, I am aware. I will not bore you with the details. I lost, and she cursed me. My beauty would be nevermore; I am so hideous now that mortals turn to stone as soon as they gaze upon me.”

Harry processes this. “So that’s where the stone statues are from. And that is why they are all screaming.”

“Yes.” 

“And the hissing?”

The low hissing that has been present since the beginning of the conversation increases in volume. “Shut up,” Voldemort says.

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered.

“Not you. My snakes. They are the ones hissing-- when Athena cursed me, she changed my hair to snakes.”

Harry takes longer to process this. “That must have been a difficult transition.”

“Very,” says Voldemort, wryly. “It would be more tolerable, if they were better conversationalists.” The hissing and rasping sounds increase, now indignant. One pattern, in particular, seems to be repeating.

“What are they saying?”

“Nothing of importance,” Voldemort says after a moment, flustered. He speaks louder over the swell in hissing. “Settle. I will finish applying this salve and bandaging.”

Harry supposes he’s wrung enough information out of Voldemort for one day. He lets Voldemort work, lulled into drowsiness by the repetitive motion of Voldemort’s fingers untangling his hair. He wakes with a start when Voldemort makes as if to move away. “Wait, Voldemort-- might I feel your face?”

“Feel… my face?”

Harry flushes and sits up with Voldemort’s help. “I do not know what you look like.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Voldemort says, guilty again. 

Harry shushes him and reaches upwards. Voldemort leans down, catching his hands and guiding them onto cool skin. Harry traces sharp cheekbones, straight brows, a defined jaw, shapely lips, nose-slits which flare when he touches them. Voldemort’s neck and shoulders are elegant and strong; Harry suspects the rest of him is much the same way, if his hands and his height are anything to go by. 

Harry does not think him monstrous, or ugly, or unattractive, really; his features are interesting, and he is caring. Anyway, he’d heard girls in the village complain about their acne and facial blemishes, which create bumps on the skin, and Voldemort’s skin is smooth and clean, not oily, so he must be at least somewhat attractive by those girls’ standards.

“What about your hair?” Harry says when Voldemort holds his hands hostage at the edges of his forehead.

“Do not bite,” says Voldemort, evidently for the snakes rather than for Harry. Then, he lets go.

Harry runs his fingers across the easy transition between skin and scales, and then-- Voldemort was not exaggerating in the least: he really does have snakes for hair. Some of them writhe about; some of them hiss; some of them nip playfully at his fingertips when he bumps their heads. He can feel their tongues flicking across his palms, inquisitive.

“That’s ticklish,” he laughs.

“Stop that,” Voldemort says irritably. Harry brings one hand down to feel his mouth.

“You’re frowning,” he discovers. “No, I like it. It feels interesting. Do they have names? Are they each a separate personality on your head?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, don’t be grumpy,” Harry smiles. He nudges the corners of Voldemort’s lips upwards and then smooths his furrowed brow. “There. Scowl a little less; you’ll get wrinkles.”

“It is impossible for me to get wrinkles,” says Voldemort, but his tone is lighter. “Sleep now. You must sleep to heal. I will wake you for dinner.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees easily, lying back, yet feeling suddenly bereft of physical contact. “You will not go far?”

“Here,” Voldemort says, and takes Harry’s hand.

“Thank you for your kindnesses to me,” Harry mumbles, content, his former drowsiness returning. “I…” 

Voldemort waits a few minutes for the rest of his sentence, but Harry is asleep.

“ _What do I do,_ ” he hisses to himself, helpless against the expanding kernel of captivation in his heart.

“ _Mate!_ ” Sasha volunteers immediately. “ _Nest! Provide! He deserves the juiciest of mice. The most comfortable nest! Ssssss!_ ”

“ _Yes, keep Harry happy,_ ” Nagini adds. “ _Mushrooms work well._ ”

“ _Scent him,_ ” Basil says.

Sasha starts chanting, “ _Mate. Mate. Mate,_ ” and nobody bites her. Voldemort wearily lays down close to Harry, cautious so as not to disturb his sleep and his relaxed hold on Voldemort’s hand, and watches the entrance to the cave. Just in case.

He still has to move the stone horse he’d left in the forest. And retrieve his basket. He can do those tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, Voldemort finds the petrified horse moved into his cave and the basket on top of it. It couldn’t have been Harry, who is still asleep and snoring softly.

He peers cautiously into the basket. In it is a jar of-- he unwraps the cloth lid-- crystallized pineapple. Tucked into the lid is a note.

 _Apologies for Cormac,_ it reads in a loopy, dramatic script. _By the way, we’re laughing at you-- when you’re with Harry, all of your snakes are paying attention as well, and it looks HILARIOUS. Thanks for the entertainment. Enjoy your new grapevines._

Voldemort rushes outside. There are indeed grapevines planted near the rocky coast, practically sparkling in the sun, supported by a wooden trellis. The grapes are ripe. Cormac's statue is gone.

Voldemort and Harry have grapes for breakfast and mushroom stew for lunch and dinner. Voldemort wonders at the possibility of drinking wine again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were some awesome guesses last chapter!! your comments are giving me life and also ideas :elmo:
> 
> also, yes, i am aware that i’m clearly horrible at estimating chapter counts, it’s the fifth chapter and i’m barely halfway through the plot,, :blobsweats:


	6. Chapter 6

6

Despite Voldemort’s fears, Harry doesn’t tire of living with him. There is always novelty in waking to a gentle caress, and eating something delicious and filling three times a day, and tending to the eternally-ripe grapevines on the coast. The Giant Squid visits every once in a while-- it likes grapes. Harry is far from bored, and even if he was, he wouldn’t give up this peaceful life for the world.

 _And,_ Voldemort is an engaging conversationalist, filled with knowledge from seemingly everywhere, and a fantastic storyteller. Even though he is an absolute worrywart.

Harry doesn’t blame him for keeping close, nowadays, whenever they go outside. That reminds him; it’s been a while since the last time he asked.

“Voldemort?”

“Here,” comes the instant response, and Voldemort’s hand settles on his shoulder for a moment. Harry relaxes.

After their basket is filled, Harry finds a smooth stone large enough for two to sit upon while Voldemort swaps the basket for another, this one filled with washed grapes. They settle down for lunch.

Harry leans against Voldemort and picks grapes off of a cluster of them, popping them into his mouth for a burst of cool sweetness. He’s full after about half the cluster-- his appetite has grown since he arrived, but he still can’t handle too much-- so he ends up lazily tossing the rest of the grapes towards the ocean, where the Giant Squid gobbles them up. Harry can hear its cheerful splashing.

Voldemort hands him another cluster when he runs out, taking the empty stems.

“I have never been so happy before,” Harry sighs, the words slipping out of him before he can think better of them. 

The sea-wind whistles in the ensuing silence. Even Voldemort’s snakes have stopped writhing about. Harry buries his face in the divot where Voldemort’s arm and shoulder and chest meet, embarrassed beyond measure, but he doesn’t take back what he said.

“Mmm,” Voldemort murmurs eventually, for lack of words, and knowing that Harry would appreciate a response. He wraps an arm around Harry and pulls him closer. His snakes start hissing again. He mutters something that sounds like “not helpful,” and his hold tightens. All of a sudden, Harry _wants_ like he’s barely ever allowed himself to.

“I wish for this to last forever,” he whispers into Voldemort’s chest. He swallows the lump in his throat and prays with all of his might. “O gods, I have not asked for much-- please allow me this.”

Voldemort tenses and gently peels Harry off of his chest; Harry, abruptly terror-stricken, clings to the fabric of his shirt. Harry will be able to do nothing to prevent Voldemort’s leaving. He cannot see-- he would not even be able to follow. 

“You are crying,” Voldemort says, more distraught than Harry is, wiping under Harry’s useless eyes with his sleeve. “Please, do not.”

Harry cries harder, helpless against the joyful release of all of the sorrows and hopes he’s bottled up ever since he was shoved into a cupboard as a babe. His tears taste like the ocean. When Voldemort gathers Harry up in his arms, Harry is trembling.

“Tell me what is wrong, I will correct it, I promise you,” Voldemort pleads to him, his voice shaking as much as Harry is.

“N-- nothing is wrong,” Harry sobs. “I’m so happy.”

“Somebody _do_ something,” says Voldemort, at a loss. The Squid splashes in the distance, and the waves wash over Harry’s bare toes comfortingly. A tender hand covers the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Let him cry,” Harry might hear, in a soothing, melodious female voice.

Eventually, Harry exhausts himself. He doesn’t think he’ll cry again for at least a decade; he curls into Voldemort with a quiet sniffle. The warmth at his nape disappears, and is swiftly replaced by Voldemort’s hand. After a bout of hissing, Voldemort says, “Would you-- is there anything I may do?”

“Do not leave me,” Harry says, knowing it is selfish and wanting anyway.

“I will not,” Voldemort promises. Harry takes the sound, along with all of the sensations of the moment-- the rumbling of Voldemort’s chest, the solidity of him around Harry, the lapping of the water and the Giant Squid, the possible goddess, the sting of his drying tears, the hissing of the snakes, the noontime sun warming his hair-- and he tucks everything into his heart to keep for as long as he is able.

* * *

The next morning, Harry is awakened by the press of lips to his forehead rather than a hand to his cheek.

“Voldemort?”

“Here.” Voldemort’s hand settles on Harry’s cheek briefly, and then his own cheek brushes against Harry’s other cheek. He pulls away and moves out of the bed-- he hasn’t yet acquired or crafted another, despite claiming that he will, eventually. Harry wonders what is different this morning, but he does not want to ruin anything, so he does not ask.

“Dionysus gifted us some jars of honey and wine yesterday,” Voldemort says over _tiganites_ for breakfast. “If you would like some, I shall mix the wine for you.”

“I can mix wine,” Harry volunteers, eager to be helpful. “I have been told I am good at it.”

“If you wish to,” says Voldemort.

“I shall do so now, so we may soften our bread.”

“No need. Enjoy your food. We may have it for dinner; you have not had it in a long time, yes? It will be better for you to eat with it.”

“Yes, that is wise,” Harry agrees, and sits.

Later that evening, Harry finds that there are two lids on the wine jug he has picked: one wooden plug, and a cloth wrapped around it. Under the cloth there are two crisp pieces of papyrus; one is imprinted with words that Harry cannot read, and the other is folded into a small, lumpy pocket.

Voldemort reads the note aloud to him. “‘Mix three bowls for the temperate: one to health, which they empty first; the second to love and pleasure; the third to sleep. No more! There was this one party-- ah, that drunken revel! and the worse for those disbelieving! but I shall not ramble on these mad details.’” Voldemort pauses. “‘I have included some seeds Harry may use to expand his garden. Use them well!”

“Love and pleasure! Why I never-- but I suppose a god cannot be presumptuous,” Harry laughs. “Does he mention what plants may grow from the seeds?”

“No,” Voldemort says. Unbeknownst to Harry, he’d left out the parts where Dionysus urges him to do all manner of things to Harry, in some detail. “I am sure he will help you grow them nevertheless. It would be a cruel joke not to,” he adds pointedly, in case Dionysus is listening.

Their lives continue in this fashion, interrupted by the occasional hero looking to test his mettle. Voldemort begins to fear Harry’s mortality; when he transitions to holding Harry at night as well as during the day, Harry does not ask, much as he does not question why Voldemort wakes him with a kiss to his forehead every morning. They press wine and Harry’s garden flourishes.

One year after Harry’s arrival, Voldemort meets Perseus with the expectation that he is only another of those occasional heroes, easily dispatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sasha: my spirit animal.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life hit me like a bludger, but now i'm back! and notice that chapter count? that’s right y’all \o/
> 
> oh and also, because the question has come up: i've ignored medusa's gorgon sisters in this universe.

7

Two months before Perseus reaches Voldemort’s cove, Cedric reels back in shock. “But mother-- I--”

“It ensured your safety, and mine,” his mother, Danaë, explains sorrowfully. “My father, Acrisius, king of Argos, is no fool; he is wary of hubris, and of Fate. Therefore, soon after the oracle at Delphi warned him that he would one day be killed by my son, he imprisoned me in a bronze chamber in the courtyard of his palace, open to the sky-- but Zeus came to me in the form of a shower of gold, and I birthed you.”

Cedric opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I named you Perseus Eurymedon, giving you honor, yet you have not received it until this day; for though we survived when my father cast us into the sea by grace of the gods and by grace of Dictys’ hospitality, I would only call you with false name before you were of age, out of fear that Acrisius may have heard of you and gladly done away with you.”

“He is no good father of yours!” Cedric shouts, incensed, leaping off of his humble stool.

“Seat yourself, my child,” Danaë soothes him. “Do not blaspheme. The gods do not look kindly upon ill will towards one’s sire.”

Cedric sits and swallows his next indignant remark. Instead, he says, “I am truly-- _Perseus?_ But I feel no different. I am Cedric, Dictys’ honorary son, inheritor of a pub-- the Hog’s Head, no more.”

“You come of age today, Perseus,” says his mother. “And you possess the gods’ favor. I have faith in your honor, and the honor and reputation-- the _kleos_ you will bring me.”

The very next day, Dicty’s protection of their identities fails. A man, just come of age, is paid attention to-- especially when that man has been raised by Dictys, who is the brother of the king of the island Hogsmeade as well as the humble fisherman. So begins the testing of Danaë’s faith in her son.

Upon laying his eyes on Danaë, the king falls in violent love with her. Cedric observes with increasing anger as he, Polydectes, attempts to woo her. Danaë spurns all of his advances. Eventually, Polydectes is so audacious as to ask her hand in marriage.

“My mother refuses you, king!” Cedric grits out to Polydectes, who has eyes only for the door of the cottage that his mother shelters in, embarrassed. “Please respect her wishes!”

Polydectes casts a sideways glance at Cedric. “I mean you no harm, my dear boy, but I would have you watch your words, lest they become treasonous,” he murmurs, a twinkle in his eyes that Cedric does not like.

Polydectes and his entourage leave that day; yet soon after, a fleet-footed messenger arrives at their cottage.

“Hark!” the messenger says, his voice ringing and clear, when Cedric and Danaë and Dictys come out to hear him. “For Polydectes, king of Hogsmeade, has proposed to Hippodameia, daughter of Oenomaus, the king of Pisa in Elis! On royal orders, a celebratory banquet is to be held; and in attendance of it, every citizen of Hogsmeade must contribute the bride-gift of a horse!”

The messenger hurries away.

“Foul Polydectes,” Cedric seethes, overcoming his sheer disbelief at Polydectes’ audacity. He spits in the dirt. “He asks of us a bride-gift that he knows I cannot afford, for we are poor. He seeks to disgrace me, then to send me away-- and without my protection he will have your hand!”

“Calm yourself, Cedric. There is nothing to do,” says Danaë. Her life has been difficult, but she is not upset.

“I will do plenty,” Cedric vows. He requests an audience with the king. Polydectes cannot believe his luck when Cedric asks him to name any other gift. “I will bring you anything you would ask.”

“Fetch me the head of Medusa,” Polydectes commands him, masking his inner triumph with a benevolent smile, knowing the task is impossible. “The Gorgon whose gaze turns mortals to stone.”

Cedric and Danaë share a horrified look. But Cedric is bound by his rash words, so he must go.

* * *

Cedric has no idea where to begin his search for Medusa’s lair. After a few days of fruitless, random wandering, Athena and Hermes appear before him.

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” Athena declares with gravity. Cedric regains his shaken footing and cranes his neck upwards to look at her-- her height is inconveniently tall for a proper discussion, but then again, one does not ‘discuss’ with a divine being. Hermes, youthful and dangling upside-down by his winged sandals in the air, nods enthusiastically beside her.

Cedric is not sure how the phrase relates to his current situation, but he dares not criticize a goddess. “O Athena, and o Hermes, wise and great ones, what shall I do?”

“Never has a man more need of his intelligence than when a fool asks him a question,” Athena responds. She stares meaningfully at Cedric for a while. Cedric does not understand. “Time is the wisest counselor of all.”

“Thank you for your advice, great Athena,” says Cedric, slowly. “Yet forgive me my incompetence, for I still do not know what to do.”

Hermes snickers and twirls around, still upside-down.

“Ah! The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing!” Athena says. “Very well, if I must spell it out to you. Find the Hesperides, those nymphs tending Hera’s orchard; with them, you will find the weapons needed to defeat the Gorgon.”

“... Where may I find the Hesperides, o mighty and beautiful goddess?”

“Ignorance is the root and stem of all evil!” cries Athena. “I must guide you again! Seek the Graeae, who shall give you directions!”

Cedric finds the Graeae. Relatedly, he has a new distaste towards holding eyeballs and single teeth, which he must do while the Graeae unwillingly lead him towards the nymphs of the west, the Hesperides. By the time he has acquired the bag he needs to safely contain Medusa’s head from those nymphs, a sword and Hades’ helm of darkness from Zeus, winged sandals from Hermes, and a polished shield from Athena with which to protect himself from Medusa’s power, Cedric would welcome any company other than slightly crazy immortals.

Unfortunately, the moment that Athena and Hermes leave him to finish his quest alone, he is accosted by more gods. While Cedric is flying over a forest, which darkens beneath his winged feet as he nears the ocean and Medusa’s cave, a loud cry for help catches his attention.

Cedric skids to halt mid-air, turns around, and descends, batting away stray branches with his shield.

“Help! Over here!” screeches the female voice, again, this time accompanied by the sounds of a beating.

Cedric draws his sword and follows the ruckus. He emerges into a small clearing, where a large, jovial man lowers a _timpanon_ , a hand-drum, and motions to him. Next to the man is a gorgeous woman. Their bearings clearly mark them as gods. Cedric lowers his sword, unsure of what they want from him-- did he not receive advice from gods merely hours ago?

“Did someone need help?”

“We have now attracted your attention,” the god booms. With a twist of his hand, his _timpanon_ disappears. “Rejoice, Perseus, son of Zeus! For I am Dionysus, and here to aid you!”

“Thank you,” Cedric says, trying not to make it sound like a question.

The goddess lightly presses her fingertips on Dionysus’ arm; Dionysus winces. She says to him, “Next time, _you’re_ the one ‘getting help.’ That was humiliating.”

“Heroes respond to desperate maidens,” Dionysus protests, “not to men like me! Look at this mass--” he pats his belly-- “what hero could carry _me_ off into the sunset?”

“I could throw you once and you would never find your way back again,” she threatens.

“That is not at all necessary!”

“Er,” says Cedric, wondering if the risk would be worth diffusing the tension.

“See, he is confused,” the goddess says to Dionysus, gesturing elegantly to Cedric. “Do not bother him with your theatrics.”

“Theatrics? Why, you are no less dramatic than me!”

She sniffs, gorgeously. “Love and drama may sing together, but _I_ recognize when they would be better off separate. And anyway, Perseus is too poor for my usual taste in conquests.”

“Nonsense!”

“O Aphrodite,” Cedric interrupts, for she could be no other goddess with her beauty, “and o Dionysus, what is my purpose here? I am eager to return to Hogsmeade with Medusa’s head, to rescue my mother from the king’s unwanted advances.”

“Ah, yes, that doomed, one-sided love.” Aphrodite finally turns to Cedric, whose heart nearly stops at her smile. He tells himself to calm down. “It is my work. But be reassured, Perseus! For you need only follow our direction, and it will not end in tragedy for your mother.”

“I have direction from the mighty Athena and Hermes,” Cedric says, bewildered and frightened. “If yours contradicts theirs, how will I choose? Tragedy strikes those caught between the whims of gods.”

“Yes, well, Athena speaks dog-shit,” says Aphrodite. “She has not told you all, in her pettiness and her pride. She would have you slay Medusa-- and my child as well!”

“Your… child?”

“I suppose you would consider him more-- my great-grandchild.”

Dionysus adds, “And a most handsome great-grandchild he is! A pity it would be, to kill him, and to sunder one of Aphrodite’s best works.”

“But do not worry about him. Our direction is merely for you to capture Medusa’s gaze in your shield rather than with your sword,” says Aphrodite. “You will still have Medusa’s head, and his ending will be compassionate.”

“I do not know,” Cedric says, wavering. “Athena was adamant that I strike his head clean off, and that I seize any opportunity to slay her evil companions. For any companions of Medusa must be as evil as him, or perish.”

“Athena lies-- she wishes misery upon us!” Aphrodite says. “And all for a feud that has nothing to do with those caught between it! She is unable to take retribution upon Poseidon, so she punishes innocents.”

“We cannot force you,” says Dionysus, shrewdly, “but you possess this power, to ease the suffering of those who deserve better. You shall see the circumstances. You risk Athena’s wrath, but we and Poseidon would shield you from her temper.” The implication is that Cedric risks these gods’ wraths by following Athena.

“She is my patron goddess,” says Cedric, overwhelmed.

“Decide soon,” Dionysus says, instead of pressuring Cedric further. He and Aphrodite share a glance, then fade out of Cedric’s sight.

* * *

Cedric discovers what Aphrodite and Dionysus meant as soon as he touches down outside of Medusa’s cave. He raises his shield to see how it reflects the lair-- and all of a sudden, the ocean wind seems to roar in his ears, though that might be the blood rushing to his head. He is glad for Hades’ helm, which hides him from sight.

Even more sickening than the statues displayed in the first chamber is the sight beyond, in the second: Voldemort is curled around another on a bed of furs, both asleep. Voldemort’s monstrousness starkly contrasts with the innocent appearance of the youth in his evil clutches.

Cedric takes a slow, deep breath, then exhales quietly. 

He stashes the bag for Medusa’s head under a stone to the side of the cave. He takes another breath, this one quicker, draws his sword, and inches into the cave with the guidance of the reflection on the polished shield.

He struggles with some careful maneuvering in between the statues, trying not to let their horrified expressions affect him. After an eternity, he emerges into the second chamber.

He must do it quickly, lest he wake Voldemort with his dithering. A strike to the neck would be best; he needs the severed head, and as monstrous as Voldemort is, Cedric would not be able to bring himself to prolong his suffering. Cedric raises his sword, does not think about things like regret and morality and the value of lives-- 

The ocean roars in his ears--

Cedric freezes as the human sniffles in Voldermort’s arms.

“Voldemort?” he whispers, the sound so soft and vulnerable it breaks Cedric’s heart. He blinks a few times, dazedly. 

His gaze meets Cedric’s in the shield’s reflection.

Cedric panics silently, caught. Hades’ helm hides him, but not his shield, nor his image. The human’s eyes are large and luminous and green, even in the faint colors of sunset slanting into the cave.

And-- they stare right _through_ him-- as if they do not see him at all.

Several revelations flash through Cedric at once. Then, Voldemort stirs, and Cedric’s heart nearly gives out.

“I heard a noise,” the human explains, needlessly, for Voldemort rears up from the bed, his hair-snakes agitated and hissing. Cedric dodges several fanged attacks on instinct. He cannot-- this is the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to him, and yet he cannot raise his sword for the final blow; for the human is trembling with fear and confusion on the bed. Voldemort hisses furiously, failing to attack once Cedric’s out of range of the bed.

He is protecting the human. The human, whom Aphrodite named as her grandchild, whose vulnerability contradicts the vile evil Athena had warned of.

 _She punishes innocents,_ Aphrodite’s voice echoes in Cedric’s mind. Yet if Cedric does not kill Medusa, his mother… he cannot afford mercy. He can, however, afford compassion.

 _I am sorry,_ he thinks. He raises his shield. There is a moment of suspense, during which Cedric hopes desperately for everything just to be over, because he can’t bring himself to hope for Voldemort’s death.

Voldemort gives an awful scream. 

It cuts off abruptly. It was short, but it rings in the cave as Cedric lowers his shield and dares to look. Voldemort is frozen into stone, his agony immortalized.

But Cedric cannot let relief overtake him yet. The human has started forward, feeling around the bed and then around the room for Voldemort. He brushes past Voldemort’s form by a mere hand’s width.

“Voldemort?” he keeps saying, his voice wavering. “Where did you go? Did you scream? No, that must have been somebody else. You promised not to leave me. I don’t know what to do-- please, answer me, I’ll help however I am able-- Is anyone here? Do not tease me.”

Cedric’s gut sinks. The human is blind and distressed, and unlikely to survive on his own. Cedric cannot take him to Hogsmeade, as much as he would like to. The most merciful thing to do would be to relieve the human of his suffering… through death. Yet-- Cedric cannot do it. It is cruel to leave the human alone, and yet Cedric cannot do it.

Perhaps he could lead the human to the nearest village. Then, at least, Cedric would alleviate the guilt of doing nothing. Afterward, he will come back to cut off Voldemort’s head, and all will be well.

“Please, do not be afraid,” Cedric says at last, halting the human’s anxious searching. It would not do for him to find that Voldemort has been slain by his own power.

“Who are you?” the human asks, alarmed. “Voldemort will take retribution against you, for being in this cave. Do not be foolish; he will turn you to stone. Many humans have tried before. Go, before he returns! But please, do you know where he is? If he is alright?”

Cedric feels so much worse-- he does not deserve this man’s goodwill-- as he lies, “Voldemort must take care of something outside. I am a trusted friend; I am to bring you to the nearest village, for your safety.” He pleads for the human to believe him.

The human freezes. “To the nearest village? He-- he promised me he would not. I never--”

“This is a special case,” Cedric interrupts, tugging gently on the human’s arm so they can go.

“I am safer here,” the human says, his tone growing shrill in fear. “He has never spoken of you. This is wrong. Let me go!”

“I cannot,” says Cedric, helplessly, “I must--”

With a cry, the human wrenches free of Cedric’s grip and elbows his gut, then knees him in the groin, the proximity rendering Cedric’s protective leathers useless. Cedric’s breath is forced out in an explosive exhale; he doubles over with a squawk. The human runs back into the second cave with little regard for his own safety, straight into the statue.

“No,” the human gasps, pulling back, knowing already.

Cedric wonders how Aphrodite could claim that this death is more compassionate than a beheading. “Do not touch him,” he says, “you will upset yourself. Please, the village is safest for you now-- now that the monster Voldemort is dead.”

“ _You_ killed him,” the human snarls, suddenly angry and whirling on Cedric. “Do not speak to me of safety, or of monsters, when _you_ are the one who has taken the first away from me, and are the purest definition of the second!”

Cedric protests, “Please, I am sorry. It had to be done; I had no choice. Right now, it would be best for us to go.”

“Why are you so eager for me to leave?” the human demands, advancing. “So that you may destroy his home, as if his murder was not enough? So that you may desecrate his corpse?” Cedric says nothing, unable to defend himself against truthful accusations, for he _had_ planned to cut off Medusa’s head. “Why are you so cruel? I cannot even insult you-- words are inadequate. You are vile in the worst way.”

“I,” Cedric says, and stops. His apologies will change nothing. He cannot regret his actions, for his mother’s life hangs in the balance, and he would choose his mother over a monster, even if the monster’s death would harm an innocent.

“You will succeed in your goal, then, for I cannot stop you,” the human says, tears flowing freely now, “but I beg of you, take mercy. I cannot go to the village. I would ask you to free me.”

“I cannot take your life in good conscience,” says Cedric, hating himself for this weakness.

The human throws himself down, at Cedric’s feet. “It would be easy!”

“No,” Cedric repeats. Polydectes had better be happy with the head. Cedric refuses to do any more of this. Before the human can beg again, a great crack resounds through the cave. 

The last thing Cedric sees is a flash of white and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-;
> 
> [relic_crown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_crown/pseuds/relic_crown) has created awesome [fanart](https://i.imgur.com/p7YphpG.png)!! the details and the lineart and the colors just astound me <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaa

8

Cedric wakes abruptly.

He suffers a moment of disorientation before realizing that he could not have been unconscious for very long. His mouth still holds the faint sweetness of the grapes he’d picked outside Medusa’s lair, and the cold of the stone beneath him has yet to seep into his bones.

He is outside— ocean-water mist from the waves crashing against rocks sprays him intermittently, accompanied by a frigid breeze.

“Perseus,” someone says with care, the consonants overly harsh and the curling sounds of the vowels exaggerated, as if he is unaccustomed to speaking. His voice is youthful. Opening his eyes a sliver and squinting, Cedric sees a strong, naked young man looming over him and holding a golden sword in a threatening manner.

Cedric closes his eyes and then opens them more widely, forcing himself to acknowledge that the golden-sword-man is real. He averts his gaze from the… eyeful, and notices the white horse… hovering? next to the man.

“Do not attempt escape,” someone warns from the direction of the water. The voice could only belong to Poseidon; it is vast, and it rumbles like water moving inexorably through the ocean’s unfathomable deeps, ancient and unrelenting… beneath the surface of human comprehension.

Cedric does not attempt to escape. Even if he had wanted to, the tentacles holding him down firmly would have halted him. Then, the horse moves back and to the side to reveal its _wings_ , and the snakes surrounding Cedric take up a furious hissing.

Cedric must be either dreaming or delusional.

“Oh, look, Perseus thinks he is delusional,” remarks Poseidon, pleased, his tone lightening.

“Do not be mean to him,” Aphrodite rebukes him, somewhere beyond Cedric’s vision. “I have too many plans for this one— do not ruin him before the fun begins.”

Poseidon protests, “I am not ruining him. He is a strong man, and of age; he will not break so easily.”

“Mortals may often handle more than is expected of them,” agrees Dionysus.

Aphrodite huffs. “I know your mischief, Poseidon. You could not claim with honesty that he is not disoriented.”

“That is what I said,” says Poseidon, “but you did not listen to me, as usual. I said he believes himself delusional, though Athena would never allow him to be.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Dionysus sighs. “You said her name. She will have our hides now.”

“To think that we are only a morning old, and yet will have met four gods in person before the day is out!” the naked golden-sword youth exclaims under his breath to the winged horse, with equal awe and apprehension.

“Chrysaor and Pegasus,” Aphrodite addresses the naked golden-sword youth and the white, winged horse. So his name is literally ‘golden-sword’-- Cedric feels a stirring of pity for the man. “Do not be distracted. Athena’s little Perseus is wily, and must not escape.”

Cedric lies limply under the tentacles and continues not escaping, as he has been doing. He is tired. He wonders if his mother is doing alright, or if he is too late.

Then Athena and Hermes descend from the sky, Athena radiating vexation; Chrysaor mutters, “No, _five_ gods,” and Poseidon roars, “GET OFF MY COAST!” The following shouting match between the gods is nearly enough to burst Cedric’s mortal eardrums.

“I don’t suppose you feel like letting me go,” Cedric says to Chrysaor and Pegasus, halfheartedly. The tentacles press him down more firmly into the rocky ground.

* * *

  
Inside the cave, Voldemort emerges from the jagged crack splitting the stone outer shell that had encased him upon meeting his own power, scraping his new, tender skin raw. His skin is pinker and less pasty and far smoother than he remembers, and there’s none of the familiar hissing of his snake-hair, and his head is too light and his blood runs uncomfortably hot in his body and there’s a foreign obstruction at the bottom center of his vision, but none of that matters, because Harry is curled up, shivering, against the far wall of the cave.

“Harry!” Voldemort gasps, strangely out of breath, rushing over to Harry’s huddled form and falling to his knees. “Harry,” he repeats, and then over again-- but Harry is not responding. By the gods, Harry isn’t responding. Voldemort reaches out; at Harry’s violent flinch, he snatches his hand back as if burned.

“Who-- who are you?” asks Harry, holding himself tighter. “Another hoping to kill Voldemort? You are too late, for he is already-- already--” He trails off, and Voldemort watches with helpless horror as he visibly forces himself to take a deep breath and uncurl. “I would know who you are, and your purpose in coming here. If you are to grant me freedom from my misery, I would welcome you.”

“No,” Voldemort breathes, hesitant to touch Harry again and hating the uncertainty of not knowing what to do. “No, no, _I_ am Voldemort, and I am alive. Please, Harry.”

Harry’s breath hitches. “You try to trick me, but it is for naught! I have already evaded Perseus and Chrysaor’s tricks; I am no fool. Voldemort has a higher-pitched voice, and his skin is cooler than a mortal’s to the touch. Yours was burning hot.”

“I am Voldemort. Let me prove it to you,” pleads Voldemort, willing Harry to believe him. Harry remains quiet, so Voldemort continues, encouraged, “I shall tell you what has happened to me. Do you know of the man who came into our cave?”

“Perseus,” says Harry, his voice cracking on the name.

“Yes. I defended you, yet he, with the help of his patron goddess Athena, raised a reflective shield so that I saw my own reflection. My power would have turned my own self to stone; by some god’s blessing, I was able to merely shed the outer stone like a snakeskin, and that same god’s grace allowed me to shed my monstrous curse in the process. I kneel here before you as--” Tom swallows, trying to ignore the nose obstructing the bottom of his vision-- “as I was, many years before. My body is restored and handsome and mortal again, Harry. That is why it is different.”

Harry uncurls tentatively. “If this is another trick, it is an elaborate one.”

“I am no trick,” says Voldemort, hating the fresh tears following worn tracks down Harry’s cheeks, “though I can hardly believe it myself. And I think-- I believe that Chrysaor and Pegasus and the snakes formerly apart from my hair, they sprung from the stone shell before I managed to escape it.”

“Well,” says Harry, overwhelmed. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and extends a hand forward to find Voldemort. Voldemort clasps Harry’s hand and wrist in his own, feeling the warmth and texture of the skin contact more acutely than he remembers it. Harry exhales. “This feels like the shape of your hand… only with human skin.”

“Yes, it is me.” Voldemort leans forward, breathless at the hope shining in his Harry’s beloved face. “Darling. I was terrified I would leave you alone. I am sorry for taking so long to return to you.”

“I want to believe you,” says Harry, plaintively.

Voldemort hastens to say, “There are things that only the two of us know. The Giant Squid likes to eat grapes, but only from your hand, not from mine. When you ask, I will tell you what every one of my snakes says, except Sasha, because she is foolish. The first time we met, I offered to free you from your torment; I cannot imagine doing so now, because I love you and so you are stuck with me.”

There is a long pause.

“I thought I had lost you,” Harry cries at last, scrambling forward. 

Voldemort wraps his arms around Harry, holding him close, and thanks the gods that he has been allowed to keep someone so precious.

Too soon, Harry pulls back, and says, unsure, “But there is one thing I do not understand.”

“Ask,” Voldemort says. “I will always answer you.”

Harry’s cheeks, formerly flushed with upset, now pinkens again with embarrassment. “I may have imagined it. I must have, for it cannot be true-- tell me, did you just… confess your love to me?” Voldemort does not respond right away, afraid of the consequence of his impulsiveness, and Harry rushes on, “Of course, I did imagine it! How audacious of me, to-- mmphf?”

Harry does not talk any more, because Voldemort’s lips cover his, at first tender and then wanting. Harry clumsily opens his mouth, sweet and pliant, and Voldemort draws from him the most wonderful noises with relish. Harry tastes like acceptance and kindness and everything Voldemort has waited for decades while drowning in the loneliness of his cave.

They break apart after an eternity, needing air. Even then, they do not move very far from each other-- as they both catch their breath, Harry rests his forehead against Voldemort’s bare chest and nervously clenches and unclenches his hands on Voldemort’s defined biceps.

“Was that-- good,” says Voldemort over Harry’s head, uncharacteristically anxious.

“Yes,” Harry says quickly. He blushes at his own eagerness, hoping that Voldemort does not see too much of it from the angle. “Your mouth is very warm, more so than I expected. Oh, I am flustered! And my lips are tingling strangely.”

Fondness swells in Voldemort. “I will kiss it away,” he promises, and ducks down to do exactly that.

Minutes or perhaps hours later, Voldemort cannot ignore the happenings outside of the cave any longer. “Harry,” he says, “are you able to stand?”

“I am no invalid, nor a cripple,” replies Harry, offended.

“You are very capable,” Voldemort agrees indulgently, tactfully not adding that he would really rather that Harry does not strain a pinky for the rest of his life. “I only ask you because we must still deal with the intruder, and the gods were having a row outside for hours…”

“I had not noticed,” Harry says, with astonishment.

Upon going outside, Voldemort finds that night has descended; under the moon- and star-light, Chrysaor and Pegasus and the Giant Squid studiously guarding a snoring Perseus, while the gods are nowhere to be seen. Harry’s garden has expanded, and the babbling of a spring sounds from within a curtain of foliage.

“I will describe the scene to you,” says Voldemort, before Harry must ask. “Careful-- some of the rocks underfoot have changed positions. We shall walk towards Perseus first. He is laying at the water-line of the ocean.”

Voldemort steadies Harry as they move. Harry walks recklessly for one who could trip at any moment, and he is constantly distracted by this or that. 

“Father,” Chrysaor greets Voldemort as they draw near, his voice accompanied by the low hissing of many snakes. “And Harry.” There is a strange, worshipful note in his voice as he says Harry’s name.

“You are Chrysaor,” Harry recognizes. “Voldemort has told me of you. You manifested from Athena’s curse.”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry for yelling at you,” Harry says with guilt. “And hitting you. You were only trying to help.”

“I am honored to have been punched by you,” Chrysaor says quickly, sincere and turning beet red. “You have no need to apologize. My balls will recover.”

“Do not speak with such vulgarity,” Voldemort reprimands him.

“I apologize,” says Chrysaor. “I did not know.”

“Of course you did not!” Harry exclaims, leaping forward. Chrysaor catches him by the shoulders before he falls. “Do not worry! It is I who is in the wrong!”

Pegasus whinnies and hovers closer to Harry, careful not to let his hooves strike the ground; for whenever they do, a spring springs forth. That had been an unpleasant surprise.

“And Pegasus,” Harry says. “You must both be so tired. Please, you may take the extra furs in the cave-- go rest! You have done well. We shall deal with Perseus.”

“You will be alright with him?” Chrysaor worries. “He is dangerous.”

“I will protect him,” says Voldemort, so Chrysaor and Pegasus are reassured and return to the cave. Voldemort briskly awakens Perseus with a kick to the ribs.

“That was mean,” Harry frowns.

Voldemort scoffs. “He deserves it. He harmed you.”

“That does not justify such callousness,” argues Harry, but before Voldemort can respond, Perseus stirs and groans.

“I must have Medusa’s head, or the frozen stone of it,” Perseus mutters to himself. “I must save my mother. It cannot be too late. Where am I?”

“In your darkest nightmare,” Voldemort hisses.

“No!” Harry squawks. “No nightmares! No bodily harm, Voldemort!”

“I will bloody well throw him to the crows for daring to--”

Harry braces himself on Voldemort’s shoulder and hops up to kiss him. He misjudges Voldemort’s position and only catches the corner of his mouth, but it is rather effective anyway.

“No,” protests Voldemort, weakly, already knowing what Harry would ask of him and displeased with it.

“He has a noble cause. We will not lose anything by giving the stone casing in the image of your cursed head to him.”

“I will lose my dignity,” says Voldemort. “Medusa does not allow mortals to return alive, nor does he show mercy.”

“There is more honor in letting him go. It is moral,” says Harry.

Voldemort sighs. So it is that Perseus leaves the coast alive, with Medusa’s stone head… Voldemort watches him go, and is not so regretful.

* * *

The next day, Harry is touching and marveling over every new plant in his garden, Chrysaor, Pegasus, and Voldemort trailing him. All of them except Pegasus are newly clothed, with the unwilling charity of the nearest village. The snakes have dispersed into the greenery happily, although one or two keep returning to Harry to twine about his feet every few minutes, as if checking that he is still there; a dangerous activity, but Voldemort and Chrysaor make sure that Harry does not step on any snake by accident.

Inside the garden space, Pegasus may walk freely without creating springs, by some god’s blessing. Periodically, they pass a screaming statue-- some god, likely Hermes or Dionysus, has moved them into the garden to guard the plants. Voldemort finds it somewhat hilarious, and Harry, though initially disturbed, does not fuss about them, only saying that he hopes the peaceful atmosphere helps their tortured spirits.

“And what are these?” Harry asks Voldemort, who for once recognizes them without consulting the book of plants that he had… appropriated from the nearest village. 

“Olive trees,” he answers. “A row of them.”

“Oh,” says Harry, surprised.

“Why are they so important? You both look shocked,” Chrysaor says. “I thought olives were common in these parts.”

“They are,” Voldemort explains, “only they are Athena’s. So we have not had them here.”

“I thought Athena hated us,” Chrysaor exclaims, childlike.

“She did,” says Voldemort.

They discover a piece of paper pinned under a rock, at the spring in the middle of the garden. Voldemort reads it aloud, for the others cannot read.

“ _Although I will never forgive you for tricking me, and therefore stealing my diadem, in miserable cahoots with Poseidon,_ oh, Athena wrote this, _I begrudgingly admit that I may have overreacted. We are even now._ _Treat this offering of peace well; I am most t~_ \-- the handwriting trails off here… there is a large ink blot on the page. I believe this is Poseidon’s handwriting that continues.

“ _Hateful, isn’t she? Well, hate not want not._ _I am not sorry, Voldemort, but we could have done that better. Take our blessings for now; we will leave you in peace. Dionysus, Hermes, Aphrodite, and I send our regards. And you will read this to Harry, won’t you? A~~_ The page is wrinkled and ripped in two here…”

“There is another paper, there,” says Chrysaor, spotting its off-white corner peeking out from under a rock on the far side of the spring.

Pegasus fetches it. Voldemort scrutinizes it, then remarks, “I have not seen this writing before… _Voldemort, hello. You have grown well. But this note is for Harry._ ”

“For me?” Harry says, scooting closer to Voldemort, as they are all sitting together upon a flat rock next to the spring. Voldemort pulls him in by the waist with his free hand.

“ _Harry, I am so, so sorry._ ” Voldemort falls silent with astonishment, failing to voice the rest of the note as he reads on.

“What’s next?” asks Harry. “You’re breathing faster.”

“Is something wrong?” Chrysaor says quickly, concerned, as Pegasus snorts and moves closer.

Voldemort drops the note and turns to the side to kiss Harry soundly, then gathers him into his arms to just hold him. Pegasus covers his and Chrysaor’s eyes with one large wing, whinnying with annoyance.

“Gross,” says Chrysaor.

Voldemort does not hear him, but Harry, always self-conscious, does. He pushes against Voldemort’s torso, whispering loudly, “Not in front of the children!”

“I do not care,” says Voldemort, refusing to let Harry go. “You were endangered by the whims of gods, and I was wholly unaware.”

“I’m here, aren’t I,” says Harry, muffled in Voldemort’s chest. Voldemort does not budge; Harry sighs, and prompts him, “Explain to me, then, what has you in such a state.”

“Did the kissing stop?” Chrysaor says to Pegasus, and Pegasus, the braver of the two, peeks. He tosses his head. “Oh, good.”

Voldemort shifts Harry into his lap and begins, “Aphrodite--” and his voice cracks. He gathers himself; Chrysaor helpfully hands him the note. “Here, I will simply read the note to you.”

“Do not forget to breathe,” Harry says worriedly, monitoring the beating of Voldemort’s heart with a hand.

“I am not panicking,” says Voldemort. “Merely-- stressed.” He clears his throat. “It says, _Harry, I am so, so sorry. I warned Aphrodite of the dangers of her plans, and though this worked out, I am sorry for you, that it cost you so. She and Poseidon are great friends, you see, and when she saw Poseidon suffering for Voldemort’s pain, she thought love would heal him; and she chose you, Harry, to love him. I do not know whether she blinded you on purpose, or if it was a mere accident, so that you would be Voldemort’s perfect partner, immune to his curse… but I think it prudent that you know. Another factor may have been that you are her grandchild, in a sense; your mother was blessed by her. But that is Aphrodite’s story to tell._

_“One more thing, before I go: I am glad that you have found a home. I hope that someday, you might enlarge your hearth, and then I will be able to visit you as Dionysus does with the garden and Poseidon does with the ocean and Aphrodite does with your love. You will need one soon, for you seem to have acquired a few children._

“ _\-- Hestia._ ”

“I think she is laughing at us,” says Harry.

Voldemort smooths a hand over Harry’s back, on which the knobs of his spine and his shoulder blades and ribs are no longer so prominent. “You are taking this remarkably well.”

“Aphrodite has blessed me,” Harry says, smiling up at Tom. “I do not mind being blind, for if I was not, she would not have chosen me, and I would suffer for the Dursleys until they ended my life.”

Chrysaor and Pegasus, sensing that this conversation is not for them, stealthily take their leave to go play by the ocean. (Poseidon, finally getting a good look at Chrysaor, is astonished at his light, curly hair and freckles, since neither he nor Voldemort has similar features. But then again, Pegasus is a horse. Poseidon should really be used to this by now.)

Voldemort wants to taste Harry again, so he leans down, and accidentally bumps his nose against Harry’s. He nuzzles at Harry to pretend it was on purpose, and Harry laughs softly, his breaths puffing against Voldemort’s lips.

“No matter,” says Voldemort, pushing his hates away for now. “I am merely glad that you have cared for me in return, despite my monstrosity.”

“Not despite. Because,” Harry corrects him firmly, and then Sasha, followed by Nagini, arrive for their intermittent check on Harry, realize the situation, and start hissing enthusiastically.

For once, Voldemort welcomes their advice. He lowers himself backward to lay against the rock, protecting Harry from its cool, rough surface, and pulls Harry down on top of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-T <3  
> as korufu so aptly predicted last chapter: they have "a wonderful paradise of each other, the ocean-view, and lots of snake pets" and also two children, and i love them so much hnngh
> 
> Extras:  
> * Am I going to publish the extra stories, like the modified myths, that didn’t make it into here? Probably. If I do, they'll be in works attached to this series.  
> * Voldemort wouldn’t even be a name in Ancient Greece-- there’s no letter ‘v’ in the Ancient Greek alphabet. I know there are reasonable ways to turn ‘flight from death’ into an Ancient Greek name, but I want to say: Boldemortos. I’m laughing. Tom Marbolo Ridledos. h i l a r i o u s  
> * Basic pantheon:  
> Titans:   
> Kronos = Alphard Black. Ask me for the rest (or my reasoning) if you’re interested, because this list is getting long; that applies for the rest of this list too, if you see anyone I missed!  
> Gods:  
> Zeus and Hera: undetermined  
> Poseidon: Sirius Black  
> Hades: Salazar Slytherin (Chamber of Secrets is his throne room ;) ) (Hagrid is down in the Underworld, taking care of Fluffy the Cerberus)  
> Hermes: Peeves  
> Apollo: Gilderoy Lockhart  
> Artemis: Luna Lovegood  
> Athena: Rowena Ravenclaw (see her quotes when she was first introduced)  
> Demeter: Alice Longbottom (Persephone: Neville. Yes, that makes for an interesting story)  
> Ares: the Bloody Baron  
> Aphrodite: Lady Zabini (Blaise’s mom)  
> Dionysus: Horace Slughorn  
> Hephaestos: Godric Gryffindor  
> Hestia: Helga Hufflepuff  
> (Iris: Hedwig :) )

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Voldemort is Medusa; his gaze turns anyone who looks at him to stone. Harry Potter is blind, and has stumbled into a certain snake's cave in order to escape his heinous cousin.
> 
> Or, Blind!Harry and Medusa!Voldemort fall in love.


End file.
